


Into the Fire

by morning_sun



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Game of Thrones spoilers, Petyr Baelish is the worst, Ramsay is his own warning, mention of non-con, mostly show references, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-08-16 22:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8119792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morning_sun/pseuds/morning_sun
Summary: Sansa and Sandor reunite after far too long an absence. Together they must decide where their place is, and how to begin a new life when nothing but death, destruction, and horror have plagued them for so long.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will take place in the television universe, with very little (but some) use of the book universe. We will follow up until the end of season 6, and begin where it ended. This will be for Mature audiences due to adult themes (read; smut, violence, language).
> 
> I do not own Game of Thrones, nor do I make any profit from this work of fiction.

* * *

  _Fire is never a gentle master. -Proverb_

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

" _You won't hurt me."_

" _... No, Little Bird, I won't hurt you."_

She lay awake at night sometimes, thinking of those words. She should have left with him.

She'd be with her mother and brother. She'd be free.

She'd be with _him_.

And now… Now...

Sansa lay a hand over her eyes and tried to forget her mistakes.

 

* * *

 

 

**SANDOR**

 

As he watched Beric Dondarrion's sword come alight with flames, Sandor found himself suddenly glad, for the very first time, that he'd not forced Sansa Stark to come north with him.

This was no place for his Little Bird.

As men yelled and jeered, as Arya Stark screamed for his death, as fire caught to his shield and the flames of Beric's sword came dangerously close to his face, he thought of her.

Of her eyes full of tears. Of her damn helpless cries as she was beaten or taunted by the King and his men. Of her words, spilling gratitude at him for delivering her from her would be rapers, accusing him of being hateful, or telling him the truth of the matter- which was that he would not hurt her.

Mostly though, he thought of her hair, long and wild when it wasn't in some ridiculous pile on the top of her head that was deemed fashionable by the court. Hair like silk. Hair like fire.

The only fire he had never feared.

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

It may have been humiliating, the way Joffrey had forced her to kneel and receive Tyrion's cloak. But the heaviness of the fabric, the weight of it on her shoulders, it was impossible not to think of The Hound once doing this, albeit in different circumstances.

_Sandor,_ she corrected herself silently. _If you ever see him again, call him by his name. Not Ser, not Lord… Sandor Clegane._

She stood and wiped away a tear as inconspicuously as she could, giving a tremulous smile to her new husband.

And for the first time she wished that it was someone else, someone specific, that stood next to her. Someone brave and gentle and strong, as her father had said he would match her with.

She wished…

Her heart seemed to tumble.

She wished that it was her Hound, _Sandor,_ draping his cloak over her shoulders, murmuring reassurances to her, and calling her Little Bird once more.

Instead, she said her vows to Tyrion Lannister.

 

* * *

 

**SANDOR**

 

He studied the young Stark girls face. Limp brown hair, angry grey eyes, blood splattered on her cheeks. She didn't look a thing like Sansa. Arya was more Stark, more like her father in looks.

"You don't have a bit of Tully in you, do ya girl," Sandor stated.

Arya sneered at him. "My sister got it all."

Sandor chuckled and vaulted onto his horse, watching as Arya did the same.

"You've got more spunk than her, more fight."

He glanced back in time to see Arya fighting down a smile.

They rode in silence for a while, Sandor lost in thought, his mind on copper hair and bright blue eyes.

"Do you think she's alright?"

Sandor glanced back at Arya and grimaced. "How would I know?" he snapped.

Arya's lip curled. "I didn't ask if you _knew_ , I asked what you _thought_."

Sandor grunted at her, and was quiet so long that Arya thought he'd not answer her.

Then he said, in a voice so quiet Arya almost missed the words, "I hope so, girl. I hope so."

 

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

They were dead.

Robb. Her mother.

Everyone she loved had gone.

And there was no comfort for her, no person she trusted to guide her, or show her compassion. She was left alone to grieve, to try and find a way to process this shock. As the door shut behind Tyrion a sob escaped her, and Sansa cried out words that came unbidden.

"I wish The Hound were here."

Then her cries overtook her, and there was no cloak to be laid over her shoulders for comfort, no harsh words that spoke truth.

Only her cries, and a castle full of enemies.

* * *

 

**SANDOR**

 

"The King is dead!" yelled a sellsword to the tavern. Every eye shifted to the man who'd made the proclamation, and that included Sandor Clegane and Arya Stark.

They had both heard of this already by Rorge at the ransacked farm, but the sellsword was going into detail of Joffrey's death by poison, and with the telling they got a more descript version of events. The girl next to him relaxed her posture, and a smile spread onto her face as the man told the bar of how Joffrey had turned purple and blue in the face, gasping his last breaths as poison coursed through his veins.

Sandor chastised her quietly, "Enough of that smirkin' girl, or you'll be hanged for treason."

Arya's expression fell then, but her eyes were alight with a happiness that was not well hidden. Sandor sighed and emptied Arya's cup of water onto the floor. He then filled it halfway with ale from his own tankard. She looked up at him, and Sandor raised his glass and knocked it against her own.

"Long live the King," he intoned with amused sarcasm, and Arya laughed and took a bracing gulp of the ale he'd poured her, spluttering only minimally.

They sat in amiable silence after that, Sandor trying to ignore the pain in his neck and keep well to the shadows, and as it always happened his thoughts turned to Sansa. While he hoped that the death of the boy King would help her situation, he'd heard from travellers a few days back that she had been forced to wed The Imp. It had made his blood boil, made the bread in his mouth taste like ash. He'd elected not to tell Arya this news, and still held the information from her, though he was not sure why.

_Best not to upset her and hear her mouth,_ he told himself with discomfort, knowing it was partly a lie. Best not to upset her, yes. But also, best not to worry the girl.

He was worried enough for both of them.

_Ah, Little Bird,_ he thought. _What have you gotten yourself into?_

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

Things has gone so wrong. The king was dead, her husband stood accused, and floors above her the exaggerated screams of passion emitted by her Aunt made their way into her own bedroom.

_This is disgusting,_ she thought, sure that the sounds Aunt Lysa was making were an elaboration.

_Maybe they aren't,_ a small voice seemed to say. _Maybe this is what true pleasure sounds like._

She scoffed audibly at this, knowing somehow that it was untrue. A man and his lady were expected to join in union, but never had she heard of this sort of reaction. It was a duty for the bearing of children. In the songs there was talk of passion, but Sansa had since deemed them as false. She had not lied to Sandor all that time ago; she had no songs left to sing. For Sansa there was no longer such a thing as love, or passion, or pleasure, not in the way the fables described. For her, there was only the will to endure, to survive, until The Stranger came to claim her.

_And besides, it sounds fake,_ she thought, putting her hands to her ears in an effort to drown the noise.

Her mind wandered then, trying to take hold of some line of thought that would distract her from her current situation.

_I wonder where Sandor is…_

Her mind grasped this particular thought with vigor, and she speculated on the places he might be, the danger he could have gotten himself into, and the regret she felt for not being with him now.

_I wonder if he thinks of me so?_

This was not the first time she'd had that particular musing. He seemed to crowd her mind at times, as though his height and stature could take up space not only in reality. Was he worried for her? Was he angry with her? Gods, she'd been so stupid, so childish, there was no reason for him not to be angry with her- she was angry with herself!

_You have to stop being so weak,_ she told herself sternly, and a bit of Sandor seemed to leak into the thought- as though he might be the one to say this to her, from wherever he was. _You have to be smarter, more aware._

She wondered what he'd think of her now, holed up in The Eyrie with Petyr Baelish and her aunt. She wondered what he'd think of Robin Arryn, and knew the answer quickly enough that she gave a silent laugh- he'd despise the child. She wondered if he was well, if he was whole. And, unbidden, she wondered if _he_ would make a woman sound this way, in the throws of passion.

This reflection had come seemingly out of nowhere, and it hit Sansa like a blow to the stomach, knocking the breath from her.

_Completely unlady like,_ she chastised herself. _Absolutely inappropriate!_

And before she could think on it more, a particularly loud and animalistic howl came from her Aunt, and it ripped her out of reverie.

* * *

 

**SANDOR**

 

Death. He was begging for it. He was sobbing for it.

The she-wolf had gone. Brienne of fucking Tarth had gone.

All that remained were the crows.

"Fuck," he moaned, wishing The Stranger would get on with it. He'd yelled and cried himself hoarse, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. The pain was horrible, mostly emitting from his leg, but he'd had worse. Any injury was better than being set afire.

Fire.

_Sansa._

"Oh Little Bird, I'm sorry," he whispered, the apology encompassing all the wrongs he'd done her, all the harsh words and coarse glances. All the times he'd stood by and let her be tortured and beat.

He should have taken her away.

He should have told her…

Even in death he could not bring himself to think the words.

"Sansa…"

He closed his mouth then, resolved that her name would be the last thing he'd ever speak to this world. And then the crows could have him.

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

"Lady Sansa, do you take this man?"

Bolton. She was about to become Sansa Bolton.

Not Stark. Not Lannister. Not Baelish.

_Not Clegane._

A Bolton. The name of traitors. The name of men who tortured and murdered and flayed.

_I'm never going to see The Hound again._ The realization seemingly came from nowhere, flying into her thoughts and taking root there.

They were waiting for her to answer, and it had been too long already.

Not for the last time, she wished Sandor Clegane were here.

"I take this man."

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've got to get rid of him. You aren't safe while he's here.
> 
> Sansa snorted and softly repeated an answer to the memory of a man long since gone.
> 
> "I am never safe."

CHAPTER TWO

_"It only takes sparks to light a fire" -Carrie Hope Fletcher_

* * *

**SANSA**

Passion. Lust. Wanting. These were all things Sansa had once yearned for. Things she'd dreamed of.

What a joke.

She is trapped now, chained to a reality that is worse than any nightmare she could have ever imagined. Now each of her days is filled with only the need for survival, any fleeting fantasy of love having died on her wedding night.

Ramsay Bolton is a monster, Sansa knows. She's been with him for months now, had his hands on her body, his knives lanced into her flesh, his words nesting into her mind, and she knows him. If the pain wasn't so intense she'd worry about having such intimate knowledge on the inner working of a crazed man. But the pain _is_ intense, and so worry at such a fact does not consume her. Instead she sits alone in her room, hands pressed on the table and back straight, willing the tremors in her body to subside. She listens for footsteps, for the approach of her husband and the pain and horror he brings. She can feel the blood on her thighs, the stickiness of it seeping through her dress, and she ignores it.

 _Calm down_ , she tells herself, and a bubbling of hysteric laughter threatens to break the silence that encases her room.

She's breaking. She knows it. Months of abuse, physical and mental, are bending her like a bow, threatening to snap her in two. She's been violated. Her spirit has been beaten.

And it's all been done in her own home.

In her own room.

She shudders and refuses to look to the bed in the corner. The one she slept on as a child- a place she is supposed to feel safe and whole.

 _Think of something else_ , she orders herself. _Think of ways to escape!_

Escape.

It seems such an impossible notion, what with the dogs and the terrain and the enemies that surround her. But she can't bear to think of staying here.

She would rather die.

It's not the first she's thought this either. There are times she thinks more on ways to end her life than of plans to flee Winterfell. Escape attempts have already been thwarted by Ramsay and Reek, the light inside of her snuffed and turning her soul cold and fleeting. She already feels as though parts of her have died.

_You must find a way to fly from here, Little Bird._

It's only in that moment that she realizes with a start that her conscious has been overtaken by Sandor Clegane. That it is he who whispers plans of escape, orders for survival, and demands of willpower.

That he is with her, no matter the distance.

* * *

**SANDOR**

Change.

It's the passage of the day. Brother Ray lectures the congregation on water, how it is gentle and strong, both a destroyer and a bringer of life. That a man may choose to live as calm as a lake, or as turbulent as an ocean.

Sandor snorts.

This is one of many sermons that Sandor feels is directed towards him. But water is water, it does as it will, and Sandor is no lake, no puddle. He is a storm. He is the biting rain and the lancing of lightning.

But he understands the message.

Change may affect him, even now when it seems impossible.

Sandor concedes that he isn't proud of most of the things he's done. His list of regrets seems endless. He should have stood against his brother ages ago and stopped The Mountain's destruction in its tracks. He should have cut down that damn boy king, should have pushed him over the Traitors Walkway instead of stopping Sansa from doing so herself.

He should have saved Sansa, should have intervened the first time Meryn Trant raised a hand to her.

He shouldn't have killed the butcher's boy.

He should have treated the wolf bitch- Arya- with less disdain. Hell, he'd even liked the girl, and in the end she'd left him for dead (though she'd not run a blade through him, which was something).

All in all Sandor understood that he was alive, and that while he could never change completely, he ought to live by a code of his own and not another's bidding. That, perhaps, his own code should involve less anger and more striving to control his temper. To quiet the storm, so to speak.

Brother Ray approved of this sentiment when Sandor told him of it later, and even gave him some tools to use when he found he needed to quell his rising fury.

"Deep, steady breathing, and clear the mind," the man had told him.

And it worked, for the most part. Instead of working through blind rage, he was able to halt, to rationalize. Brother Ray counseled him to not forget the mistakes of his past, but to accept them and work on living a better life. A life that was lived for the better of others, to counteract the destruction and sorrow his old life had left in its wake.

Sandor understood this as well, but was harder pressed to follow through with it. The world, and the people in it, had done little for him. The man he'd become was a result of survival and necessity, and that would not change when he left this place.

 _If_ he left this place.

But no matter how well he put worries and regrets from his mind, how well he labored and listened and contemplated, there was one constant that would never disappear. It was with him in all his waking moments, plagued his dreams and distracted his mind.

It was the image of hair like fire, and it would never leave him.

It seemed to keep him burning.

* * *

**Sansa**

_King of the North._

That's what they were calling Jon now.

It had a ring of destiny to it.

She had thought on it now that days had passed, truly processed her feeling of the events. She'd been happy to hear the proclamation of the houses as they fell behind house Stark. It _still_ made her happy. Jon was a good leader, a good brother, and a good man. This was the right way of things, the way it should be.

A cautious part of her acknowledged that it made her feel safer to have so many houses stand with them, and that made her scoff.

 _You are never safe,_ she chastised herself, still inhabited with The Hound's rough timbre.

Which led her to her final emotion on the matter; fear. Fear of death and war and capture. Fear of rape and torture. Fear of betrayal.

For while Ramsay was dead and gone, the world was still a place that was cruel and unfeeling, and men like him existed in all corners of it. And while the battle was over, and Jon was returned to her alive and whole, wars were still to come, and his life and her own were never guaranteed. And betrayal… Robb had been betrayed. Her mother and father had been betrayed. Jon had been betrayed. She had been betrayed. She could trust so few people. Jon and Brienne, Tormund and Davos, they were the only in her circle that she could ever depend on.

And Sansa had seen the look on Petyr Baelish's face, when Lyanna and the others had proclaimed Jon as King of the North. She knew he was no man to be trifled with.

 _Fucking Petyr Baelish,_ her mind snarled with the voice of Sandor Clegane, _you should have slipped a knife between his ribs in the Godswood._

Sansa sighed at the sense of this, knowing that Petyr was a problem that was far from fading away. He was still slinking about in Winterfell, The Knights of the Vale taking up space and resources while they waited for orders to depart. He would catch her eye and smirk at her from time to time, and she knew he believed her to be angered over Jon's rise in station.

She was not.

But Baelish was taking far too long to depart from Winterfell, and Sansa wondered when the other shoe would drop and the man would reveal what else he had in store.

_You've got to get rid of him. You aren't safe while he's here._

Sansa snorted and softly repeated an answer to the memory of a man long since gone.

"I am never safe."

* * *

**SANDOR**

They were just past Moat Cailin when Sandor and The Brothers Without Banners ran into the Red Witch.

She'd been riding hard, her horse foaming at the mouth and breathing in heavy gusts when she'd stopped to greet them on the King's Road. Beric and the rest of the men had made much of Melisandre following them back North- to the Wall, but the woman had been firm in her resolve to head south- though she'd refused to elaborate on why.

She had sat at their fire that night, however, and had accepted the meager meal the men offered her without prodding, and Sandor thought that while she was undeniably beautiful as always, she looked drawn and exhausted.

Melisandre made him uncomfortable. Sandor had caught her gazing at him when she wasn't busy looking into the camp fire, and he thought the look was more than penetrating. He did his best to ignore her, brooding into the flames himself, wondering what the Wall had in store for him. He'd gone to sleep much earlier than the rest of the group, and even as his mind sank into dreams, he felt bright blue eyes watching him.

The next morning, as the group packed to leave and the priestess accepted a small provision of food in exchange for coin, Sandor found himself standing close by, waiting.

It was as if he _knew,_ somehow _,_ that she had a message for him.

She came to him, her eyes both cautious and calculating.

"You are not meant for the Wall, not yet," she said, and Sandor set his jaw and glared down at her.

"I don't believe in your god, witch," he snapped. "I make my own destiny."

Her lips twitched, as if she were part of a joke he was not yet aware of. And then she said it, the words that took the breath from him, that stopped his heart and rammed into him like a sword to the chest.

"Sansa Stark is in Winterfell, and she is in danger."

He stood there then, rooted to the spot and unable to move, his mind trying and failing to grasp onto all of what she'd said.

Sansa.

In Winterfell... In Danger…

… _Sansa._

The momentum caught up to him then. He looked to Melisandre and, after a heartbeats moment of hesitation, nodded. And then he was gone, gathered his things and taken the large black destrier that one of the defected knights owned and could hardly control, its hoofs pounding out a fast and steady beat on the road to Winterfell.

On the road to Sansa.

* * *

**SANSA**

She'd avoided him for weeks, able to keep him at an arm's length whenever he looked as if he might corner her. When Brienne had returned to Winterfell, Sansa had stayed close to her sworn shield, knowing the woman would not tolerate Petyr's schemes. Instead Sansa kept herself busy, insisting that Brienne and Tormund train her on defense. The Wildling was more than happy to acquiesce, especially with the added aspect of having Brienne near to him. Sansa wore breeches and light leather armor given to her by Tormund, and trained with a wooden sword in the yard for hours on end, determined to learn to hold her own, to never again be so helpless.

Sansa took meals with her brother and the rest of the castle, she met with the new maester to determine what work needed to be done to the buildings that had not yet been repaired. She overlooked provisions and made list upon list of supplies that were still needed to survive the winter, however long it lasted. Jon had told her that by the end of the week he planned on telling Petyr to return to The Vale until given further instruction- nearly all other houses had left Winterfell, the exception being twenty men from the Mormont house that Lyanna had ordered to stay behind as added protection for the new King.

But he was not gone yet, and Sansa had finally been cornered by the ever persistent man, literally pressed into a corner in the hall outside of the dining area, her lips thin with a frown.

"Sansa this is madness," he told her, eyes flashing. "You are the rightful heir to Winterfell, to the North. Not some bastard. You _know_ this."

He spoke softly, but his words were like the screeching of crows to her now, and it made her grit her teeth.

"Jon is a good leader, a good man. He is my brother-"

"Half-brother," Petyr interjected.

"I don't care," Sansa said firmly, jaw set and back straight. She looked down on him and let every ounce of hate she had for the man show in her eyes. To his credit, Petyr did not flinch.

"Sansa, I can fix this for you. I can make all your dreams come true."

They were the wrong words to say.

"My dreams? _My_ _dreams_?!" She laughed, but it was humorless and derisive. "You know _nothing_ of my dreams, you only know what the old Sansa would have wanted. But that girl died when you sold her to the Bolton's."

He did flinch this time. "Sansa, you must believe I did not know."

"I don't believe you," Sansa said firmly, leaving no room for debate. "You are a smart, devious little man, Petyr Baelish. To accept that you did not know of Ramsay Bolton's nature would be to accept foolishness, and I am no longer foolish."

They stood there, glaring at one another now, contempt no longer masked on Petyr's face. Finally he spoke, slow and deliberate. "You are betrothed to Robin Arryn."

Sansa did well at keeping her features blank except for a scowl.

"That is inconsequential, considering all that has happened."

Petyr smirked at her. "Not so inconsequential, my dear. The boy will still have you. An alliance between The Vale and Winterfell would be… advantageous."

She could not help the bark of laughter that left her then.

"The day I marry Robin Arryn will be the day they bury me next to my father."

She tried to leave him them, to slip past him and into the dining hall, but he grabbed her upper arm and held her in place.

"Release me," she hissed.

Petyr ignored her. "I doubt the _King of the North_ will decline such an arrangement, when it means the full support of the Vale," he said, lip curling.

"If you believe that, then perhaps you are a fool. Now unhand me, or I will have my sworn shield cut you down."

"Aye," a man said roughly, "That he will."

The voice had been spoken from behind them, and it made Sansa freeze. Her eyes went wide, and she turned her head sharply to look to the speaker.

He stood there, just as tall and broad and fierce as he always had, taking up far too much room than should be allowed. He was surrounded by Mormont men, hands tied tightly together, weaponless and without armor, but he looked as though he could knock them all to their knees with an errant blow. He glared down at Petyr, anger rolling off of him in waves.

"My lady," one of the men was saying. "This man says he must see you, he insisted we bring him to you at once…"

It was background noise. All of it. The world had narrowed, her vision tunneled. Petyr had released his grip on her arm, and she was stepping away from him and towards the captive man, as though she were in a trance. He looked to her as she drew near, his eyes uncertain.

"Little Bird?"

Sansa broke then, to hear the name from his lips.

"Sandor!" And then she was to him, her arms clutching his shirt, her face pressed to his chest as she shook with sobs.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is where we break from designated POV's. If anything, this would be a good place to say we end the introduction and move into the meat of the story. I'm going to try and keep this under 10 chapters, but who knows. At some point I'm going to write and post a Sansan moden AU I have floating around in my head as well.
> 
> Your comments and kudos keep me strong!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, that for Sansa, he would always follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have all been fantastic, just FYI. 
> 
> I am SO nervous about this chapter. I hope you all enjoy!

CHAPTER 3

 _"_ _Each one of us has a fire in our heart for something._

_It is our goal in life to find it and to keep it lit" – Gackt_

* * *

 

Sandor had not realized just how much he'd missed Sansa until he'd seen her, until she'd cried his name and clutched his tunic and sobbed against his chest.

It had been a long ride to Winterfell, even with the superior speed and strength of the black steed he'd stolen, who rode as though The Stranger were at its hooves- and had thus earned its name. Sandor knew he made better time alone and on the temperamental stallion than he would have with the Brothers, most of whom did not have horses and were making the long trek to the Wall on foot. But it had still felt like too long, and each night he worried that he would reach Winterfell too late, only to find Sansa buried in her family tomb- gone to him forever.

He wondered at what sort of trouble she'd gotten herself into, for he had heard little to nothing of the girl after leaving the King's service all those years ago. The last scrap of knowledge he'd gained was that she had fled from the Red Keep, and to where was a mystery. The Brothers had not talked of Winterfell, and Sandor had not asked. This was partly because he'd been afraid of the answer, unwilling to hear of more Stark's deaths- wanting only to believe that Sansa, and even Arya, had found their way in the world somehow.

He had been met by soldiers at the gates of Winterfell, snow falling slow and thick and freezing the hairs of his arms. Sandor had agreed to be tied at the hands and relieved of his ax only if he were taken to see Sansa immediately, hoping that he'd not be met with news of her death. But after some hesitation the soldiers had agreed.

Sandor's relief that the girl was indeed alive had been diminished by the fact that the soldiers at the gate were willing to take an apparent stranger to the lady of Winterfell- let alone one that looked like him. Sandor found this alarming, and he'd had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from verbally assaulting the men on the spot. He'd held his tongue and had been led into the hall without incident, the only look of caution coming from a large red bearded man in the yard, who had paused in his task of speaking with a small group of armed and rough looking men to stare as he was led past, eyes lingering on Sandor's scared face.

They entered the main entrance hall, and Sandor had seen her immediately. Her red hair was still just as bright and catching as it had always been, and he'd stopped in his tracks, one of the men at his back grunting in surprise and bumping into his shoulders.

Sandor had to do a double take, for she was wearing men's breeches and a thick woolen tunic- garments a lady like Sansa would never don purposefully. She was older, taller, body and face filled into the angels of adulthood. But she was undeniably the girl he'd known at the Red Keep. The girl who he'd killed for, the girl he'd tried to save. The girl who was now a woman grown.

She was beautiful.

Her side profile showed an expression of anger, and it was only then that Sandor realized a man was gripping Sansa's upper arm.

A familiar man.

 _Petyr Baelish_.

Sansa had spoken harshly to Littlefinger then, had threatened him with her sworn shield in a voice full of hate and disgust, and without thought Sandor had snarled at the man.

And now…

Now she was pressed against him, Sandor stiff with astonishment as she clung to him, her tears mixing with the snow on his tunic and making it damper, her red hair curtained around her and brushing against his hands.

_She'd said his name._

He'd wondered, on his way to Winterfell, how Sansa might greet him. He'd expected anger. Perhaps indifference. He had even half convinced himself that she would not remember him- but for the scars on his face.

He had _not_ anticipated this.

Sandor turned and looked to one of the men next to him.

"Cut these bonds, you fool," he growled, and the young soldier looked to his companions in momentary loss. Sandor strained against the ropes, wanting to hold the girl pressed against him, to reassure himself that she was indeed here, and well, and unharmed.

Unfortunately, the moment was broken.

"That is _The Hound,_ gentlemen," Littlefinger snapped, breaking the confusion of the guards and approaching the group with tentative steps. "And you let him stroll into the gates of Winterfell without thinking to ask if it was _advisable_?"

Sansa, whose breath hitched suddenly at Petyr's words, propelled away from Sandor and rounded on the small man, her eyes red rimmed and bright.

" _Ask_ if it were _advisable?!"_ She thundered, roughly wiping away tears. "You do not make decisions here, Baelish. Jon is lord of Winterfell, and your counsel is _unwanted_."

Sandor watched Sansa, her voice steadily rising as she stalked toward Baelish, and he could not help feeling a mixture of both surprise, and pride.

His Little Bird had found a voice.

Petyr opened his mouth as if to speak, but Sansa cut him off. "Your welcome in Winterfell ran its course _weeks_ ago. It is time for you to return to The Vale."

Before the man could counter with a response of his own, the door behind Sandor was pushed open with force, banging on the wall so strongly that is was a wonder it did not split in two. Sandor turned to watch the rough looking red haired man from the yard barrel in with a group of four others, including…

"Brienne-of-fucking-Tarth," Sandor intoned with a smirk, and the blonde unsheathed her sword in response, her expression livid. Next to her Sandor recognized her squire, who resolutely followed the lead of his lady and also drew his sword.

" _Who_ brought this man beyond the gates?" the woman snapped, her voice just shy of a bellow. Around him the armored men shuffled uneasily.

"Bloody stupid kneelers," the red haired man mumbled, rolling his eyes.

Before things could progress further, Sansa placed herself in front of Sandor, her eyes dry and her jaw set.

"Sandor Clegane is here as a guest, not a prisoner."

In the quiet that followed that statement, Brienne looked as though she might explode.

"My lady, this is the man who had Arya. The one I bested on my way to the Eyrie."

It was not information Sansa had been privy to, and Sandor saw just a moment's wave of hesitance wash over her before she shook her head.

"I do not care. You are my sworn shield, and I forbid you to harm this man. Put away your sword."

The errant wave of pleasure her words caused Sandor made him smile widely, an unpleasant glint in his eyes that he directed towards the Maid of Tarth, and Brienne's look of anger intensified when she saw it.

" _I said put away your sword!_ " Sansa hissed, and her voice was hard and even, and bore no room for refusal.

Brienne sheathed the blade then, though with obvious resentment, and her squire followed suit.

Sansa ignored the woman and turned to a man who had dark hair and eyes. He was shorter than the rest, Sansa seemed to tower over him, and was wearing a thick black cloak trimmed with fur.

"Jon," she said, "Littlefinger has just told me of his plans to return to The Vale."

The man- Jon- raised his browns, looking in confusion between Sandor, Sansa, and Petyr Baelish. Sandor realized that he was looking at Sansa's half-brother, a Snow, and wondered how he came to be the lord of Winterfell with the last name of a bastard.

Baelish stepped forward then, a look of annoyance washing over his features.

"That," he began, "was my plan, you grace."

Sandor arched a brow at the words "your grace", but Petyr was continuing. "I would first like to speak with you in private, however."

Sansa's lips thinned. "Jon," she began, "You may be King of the North, but if you do not eject this man and his knights by the end of the night, I will cut his throat while he sleeps."

She turned her back on them then, leaving Littlefinger gaping like a fish and her brother with wide eyes and a bemused expression. Sandor thought that, probably, he looked just like them, stunned and bewildered and… gods, _proud_. So fucking proud of his Little Bird.

Sansa took a short, wicked looking dagger from an unseen sheath on her wrist, causing Sandor yet another shock, for a lady was not expected to carry a weapon, and certainly not one such as Sansa. But she quickly freed Sandor from his bonds, and though they did not hurt he rubbed his wrists, more to have something to do with his hands than anything else.

"I'll show you to your room," Sansa said firmly, and then she was past him, and Sandor had no choice but to follow.

He knew, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, that for Sansa, he would always follow.

* * *

She'd thrown herself onto him.

The memory threatened to burn her cheeks, but Sansa did well to squash the flush away with willpower alone, and when she turned to face him outside of the door to his chambers, it was with clear eyes and a raised chin.

It was only then that she realized Brienne had followed them.

Sansa sighed. "Brienne I am perfectly fine."

The Maid of Tarth huffed in disbelief. "I highly doubt that, My Lady."

At that Sandor chuckled low in his throat, and it made Sansa's toes curl into the soft leather of her boots.

"I beat you once, dog, I can do so again," Brienne retorted.

"So you did, Brienne of Tarth," was all that Sandor said in reply.

"Brienne, you'll not lay a hand on him. I forbid it," Sansa said it softly and pressed her lips together, knowing that she sounded unsure in this demand. She felt highly uncomfortable forbidding the tall woman of anything, but she knew she must say it, and explicitly, so that the woman would understand. She let her eyes fall briefly to the stone floor before meeting Brienne's gaze. The woman looked torn, and Sansa knew she was contemplating the benefits of disregarding Sansa's demand all together.

"Fine," Brienne finally replied, her voice tight with anger.

"No getting Tormund to do so either," Sansa said, and held back laughter at the look of poorly disguised disappointment on Brienne's face.

It was obvious this was something she'd thought of.

Instead the woman said, "I would never have another do what I cannot myself."

"Of course," Sansa replied, nodding her head in acquiescence.

Sansa turned to open the door, but stopped when Brienne began speaking.

"My lady, this man is _dangerous_. He had your sister _captive_ , Sansa."

Sansa looked to Sandor, her eyes asking silently for an explanation.

Sandor shrugged. "It's true," he began. "I took the wolf bi- … I took your _sister_ as a hostage, and I tried to sell her to your family." He paused for a moment, as if he were unsure of his next words, then added, "They were all dead, by the time we got to them. The Red Wedding was well on its way when we reached the Twins, and your Aunt Lysa had been dead for three days when we reached the Eyrie."

Sandor shuffled, a bit uncomfortable then with two sets of eyes heavy upon him.

"Your Sworn Shield met us on the road, her squire boy recognized me. She wanted to take the girl, I wouldn't let her-"

"I was sworn to protect her!" Brienne interjected with heat, and once more Sandor scoffed at the woman.

"You foolish cow," he barked, "You were walking around carrying Lannister steel. Who the fuck was supposed to trust you?"

Brienne did not respond, only glared at the man in front of her and took two large steps closer to him.

Sandor looked around him then, as though he were searching. "Where's the girl then? That you swore to protect? Did you bring her here?"

Each word dripped with derision and mockery, and Brienne's jaw worked in anger as she glowered at him.

"I couldn't find her," she answered through clenched teeth.

"You couldn't find her," Sandor repeated with a sneer, standing straight and tall to better look down on the woman, who had come even closer to him, hand on the hilt of her sword. "That girl told you she wouldn't go with you, you dumb bitch-"

" _Enough_!" Sansa cut through the wave of tension and fury that had built between the two adversaries by stepping between them, laying a hand on each of their shoulders.

"Stop this!" she barked, pushing them so that they were each at an arm's length, knowing that they each had allowed her to do so, and not on account of any strength of her own.

Sansa turned to Sandor. "You'll not speak to her that way," she insisted. "And you," she turned to look at Brienne, "will keep your hands off your weapon. Both of you will _let this go_."

When neither said anything Sansa said sharply, " **Now**!"

There was a long silence, before finally Sandor said, "I didn't hurt the other girl, and I'll not hurt this one."

" _We'll see_ ," Brienne snapped.

Sansa waited to see if either would say more, but when they would not she relented and let her hands drop, realizing that, for now, this was the best she would get. She turned once more to open the door to Sandor's room, and once more was stopped by Brienne.

The woman cleared her throat, "My lady, have you asked him what he is here for?"

Sansa sighed. "I have not." She looked over her shoulder to Sandor, brows raised in question. His lips twitched, obviously amused by the entire situation.

"I was on my way to the Wall when I heard you were alive and in Winterfell. I got here as soon as I could, Little Bird."

Sansa's heart beat wildly at that, and she poorly concealed a wide smile by turning to once more begin to open the door to Sandor's chambers.

And once more, as though she could not help herself, Brienne cleared her throat and interrupted her task.

"My lady," she began, "this room is next to yours."

Sansa smiled faintly at her sworn shield and opened the door wide. "You are very observant, Brienne."

* * *

They'd not been able to speak after that. Sansa had finally been able to open the damn door and show him the room she intended on him staying in, and then the giant woman's squire, Podrick Payne, was there, telling them they were needed immediately by Jon Snow, the King of the North.

The King of the fucking North.

Sandor was less than impressed, he himself being more than tired of Kings.

The four of them, himself, Brienne, Sansa, and Podrick, all entered a small room off the main entrance hall, and in it were the same people who had earlier nearly broken the door down to rescue Sansa from supposed danger. His Little Bird made introductions, indicating Davos Seaworth, her kingly brother Jon Snow, and Tormund Giantsbane- the red bearded man that had eyed Sandor on his way through the yard- leader of the free folk.

_The fucking free folk._

She must have seen his look, because very quickly, and with minimum detail, Sansa told Sandor of Jon's pact with the Wildlings, and the threat from beyond the Wall. Sandor had already known of White Walkers from his travels with Beric and the Brothers, and did not ask further questions concerning the matter. Instead he said, "I don't give a damn about Wildlings or White Walkers or any other such foolishness. I'm here because the Red Witch said you were in danger."

At this, Davos looked sharply to Sandor. "You saw Melisandre?"

Sandor shifted and looked at the man with a guarded expression.

"I did."

" _Where_?"

There was an angry glint in the man's eyes, and Sandor recognized it for what it was; hate.

"Moat Cailin, headed south."

Davos seemed to relax at this, and Jon took the moment to interrupt the conversation.

"Sansa, I spoke with Baelish."

Jon glanced cautiously at Sandor, then back to Sansa, as if he were unsure to continue in front of The Hound.

"I can wait out-"

"No, you can't," Sansa said quickly, shaking her head, and Sandor tried not to look too pleased with her insistence that he stay.

Jon gave a tired sigh and nodded. "It's just as well," he said, then looked to Sandor. "Besides, I have questions for you, Clegane."

They all took seats around a lone table then, Brienne to the right of Sansa and Sandor to the left, with Jon, Davos, and Tormund across from them. Podrick quickly rushed to be seated next to his lady.

"Has Baelish left, then?" Sansa asked.

Jon sighed once more, running a hand over his face in a show of stress. "Not yet. He's just finished informing me on the details of your betrothal to Robin Arryn."

Sandor gave a start of surprise and looked to Sansa. _Betrothed_?

The girl was staring intently at her brother, eyes narrowed and back straight.

"I'll not marry that child," she said firmly, and Sandor wondered if this was the danger that Melisandre had spoken of. If he'd have to fight his way out of Winterfell with Sansa in tow- for he'd not let her be married off if she didn't wish it.

But Jon shook his head and said to his half-sister, "Of course not, Sansa. But Littlefinger is a powerful man, and it is he who influences The Vale, not Robin Arryn. His army could be the difference between winning and losing."

Sansa leaned forward and said urgently, "Jon, this is all a ruse. He'll kill Robin Arryn the first moment he can, and he will take me as his wife. He wants Winterfell, he wants the Iron Throne. If you agree to do this, Jon, I will-"

"Sansa!" Jon broke her words and reached across the table to grab her hand, holding it tightly. "Sansa the question is not if you will marry Robin Arryn. I will _never_ force you to marry. Not after… not after what's happened…"

Sansa nodded, biting her lip and taking a deep breath, and Sandor felt a chill run through him. _What_ , exactly, had happened?

But Jon was speaking again, and Sandor had to push the comment to the wayside to be scrutinized later.

"The question," Jon continued, still looking intently at Sansa, "is what is to be done with Littlefinger."

He released Sansa's hand then, and after a moment of pregnated silence Tormund spoke.

"I say we let this big fucker run him through," he said, nodding towards Sandor.

Next to Sansa, Brienne scoffed.

"No offense!" Tormund amended quickly, "You are also welcome to smash the little man's head."

Brienne rolled her eyes at the man, and Sandor had to cover a snort with a choking cough when he saw the Wildlings lustful gaze at the giant maiden.

"Make him leave Jon," Sansa pleaded. "We can't just kill him, not after his help against… Ram-... against...him."

Again Sandor's eyes held a worried confusion.

 _Oh Little Bird, what's happened_ , he thought.

It was not lost on him the pity that the rest of the occupants in the room regarded Sansa with.

"Just send him away," Sansa said again, the look in her eyes reminding Sandor of a wild animal trapped in a snare.

Sansa's brother nodded. "He'll be gone within the hour, Sansa."

Sansa breathed in relief.

"Really though," Davos added, "he'd do well to have an… unfortunate accident… on his journey home. I've spoken to Lord Yohn Royce a brief number of times, and I get the distinct feeling he'd be an easier man to deal with."

Tormund brightened at this. "I have a man in my clan who is very light on his feet. He could be in and out of the little man's camp with no one the wiser."

"They'll know he was killed and they will suspect one of us," Sansa began. "It would be better to poison him."

For what felt like the hundredth time in a day destined to continue to astonish him, Sandor looked to Sansa with approving eyes.

"I hate poison," grumbled Tormund, and around him there were murmurings of agreement.

Sansa rolled her eyes. "You're all being ridiculous," she chastised to the room. "Either way ends with the same results, only with poison one could believe he was overtaken by a sickness."

Jon grimace and exhaled heavily. "We have no poison that would not have a telling effect, and at any rate, I don't feel comfortable stabbing a man in the back after he's just helped me win a battle," Jon said with resolve. "Let him return to The Eyrie, we will tell him that we need time to think on his proposal for Robin Arryn and Sansa. We'll send along a message with an envoy in a few weeks' time, and see if we cannot gain the ear of Lord Royce and the boy."

Sandor thought that Sansa looked moderately disappointed in her brother's decision not to kill Littlefinger. It seemed, however, that relief in the man's departure overrode this feeling, for she smiled softly when Jon sent Podrick to relay the order that Petyr Baelish was to be gone from Winterfell within the hour.

Her smile vanished though, when Jon looked at her and said delicately, "Sansa, you must make a decision on the hounds."

For one wild moment Sandor thought that the man meant himself.

"They must be worked with if we are to keep them, Sansa," Jon continued gently. "They cannot stay locked away forever."

Sansa bit her lip. "I will have an answer tomorrow," she said finally, and Jon nodded and averted his eyes from her. In fact, the whole room looked as though this had been a subject of extreme fragility, and one that was lost on Sandor.

He wanted to ask her then and there what had happened to her, for a sinking suspicion was already starting to take root. He held his tongue though, and Jon moved on.

"Lastly," the man began. "Sansa was telling me early this morning that she needed some things taken care of in her room. Tormund, can you spare some men to help with moving things?"

"I can, but not until tomorrow," Tormund answered, looking questioningly to Jon, who shrugged, then to Sansa, who only smiled and thanked him.

"I'll have a few Mormont men help as well," Jon told her.

Then the newly appointed King of the North turned his focus on Sandor.

"You say that Melisandre told you Sansa was in need of your help?" Jon asked, and Sandor nodded.

"Then I should tell you that the woman was banished from the North for burning a child at the stake."

Sandor shrugged, "I fail to see how this information is useful to me, boy."

Before Jon could respond, Davos snapped, "That's _Your Grace_ to you, Hound."

Sandor laughed derisively. "I'll be calling him no such thing. He's not my King. All I knew of him before today was that he was Ned Starks bastard."

Jon looked him over then, seeming to read him with just a sweep of his eyes. "I was proclaimed by the other houses of the North. If not to me, then what King do you bow to, Ser?"

"None," Sandor replied easily. "And I am no Ser."

Jon quirked his lips and shrugged. "Neither am I, Clegane. I don't care what you call me, so long as you don't hurt my sister."

"I'm here to protect her… something it seems she's been lacking until now."

From where she sat, Brienne of Tarth grumbled something under her breath, which sounded a lot like _bloody mongrel._

Jon ignored Sandor's comment and looked to his sister. "You trust this man?" he asked.

Sansa nodded without hesitation.

Jon groaned tiredly. "Why, Sansa?"

"He was Joffrey's sworn shield while I was held captive there, Jon. He was the only one to ever help me. During the Battle of the Blackwater he offered to take me from there, to deliver me to mother, and Robb." Sansa wrung her hands together. "I… I believed Stannis had won. I refused to go with him."

Though it was left unspoken, Sandor heard the regret in her voice.

"Lady Brienne tells me she bested you in The Vale, that you had my sister Arya with you," Jon said.

"Aye."

Jon waited, and when Sandor did not elaborate he snapped, "Obviously I need you to tell me your version of events, Hound."

And so he did, leaving out his dying words, and adding to Jon that the girl had once told him she had friends in Braavos. "I was in a sept after that, and they patched me up, but they were raided and killed. Then I joined the Brothers without Banners on their journey to the Wall."

"Will you go there now?" Jon asked, eyes calculating.

"No, not now."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps when you've been reassured Sansa is in no danger here?"

It wasn't a request, and Sandor felt he'd do better not to press his luck with the boy. "Perhaps," he answered.

Jon nodded in resolve. "You can take a room with the Mormont soldiers in one of the barracks we've recently rebuilt. While you're here I expect you to help in the repairs on Winterfell."

Sansa spoke up then. "He can help however he is needed, but he'll stay in Bran and Rickon's old room."

Jon's brow raised, but Sansa continued before he could object. "I am no child, Jon. We owe Sandor Clegane for all he tried to do while I was betrothed to Joffrey."

"He is a deserter, my lady," Podrick said quietly, leaning forward in his seat to look at Sansa.

Anger flashed in Sansa's eyes. "He escaped the service of an evil king," she seethed.

Stung, Podrick eased back into his seat, seeming to shrink into it.

Sansa looked again to Jon. "Do not be a terrible host, Jon. He'll stay in the main house, and he'll take meals at the main table."

Jon groaned. "Gah, Sansa!" He laid his head in his hands for a brief moment, his fingers running through his hair and tugging in frustration. Finally he threw his arms up in a sign of defeat. "Fine!" he declared, and he stood and pointed across the table at Sandor. "But I will remove your head from your shoulders if you ever betray her trust."

They were done then, it seemed, for Jon stalked from the room, telling Brienne over his shoulder that she was to keep an eye on the Hound.

As they all stood and went their separate ways, Sandor was surprised to find the wildling, Tormund, waiting for Sansa.

"Do you still want to train, lady wolf?" he asked her, fingers tracing the hilt of his sword.

Sansa hesitated for only a moment. "Yes, alright," she replied. Looking up to Sandor, who stood by her like a shadow, she said, "I train with Tormund in the mornings, but that's been sidetracked a bit. It's why I'm dressed in these clothes…" she looked down at her breeches and woolen tunic, then back up to Sandor. "Would you like to come with me? Or would you rather rest?"

Sandor looked down at her, red hair now held in his gaze instead of his memories. He'd ridden miles upon miles, nearly killing his horse and was in danger of getting frostbite in this forsaken land of wolves and monsters. But Sandor could have been on his deathbed, and he'd still have followed her across an ocean.

He nodded and followed her out into the bitter cold.

He was surprised to see that they had gone to a fenced off area, the same one Joffrey and the Stark boys had practiced sparring in all those years ago, and Sandor watched as Sansa picked up a sturdy wooden sword and squared off with Tormund.

He wanted to pick the man's training apart, find all the ways he lacked in teaching Sansa how to hold a sword, and how to defend herself, but it was apparent that he was teaching her well, and that it had been a routine between them for some time now. He leaned on the fence casually, feeling the exhaustion of the week's hard riding seem to settle into his bones. Sandor found himself wondering on all that he'd heard in his short time here. What could have ever pushed his Little Bird to desire training in combat?

 _You know exactly what could have happened,_ he thought to himself, and unease and helplessness seemed to claw at his throat.

It wasn't long before Brienne was standing near him, also watching Sansa and Tormund as they went through a barrage of different maneuvers with their wooden swords, slowed so that Sansa could get used to them before moving on to a faster pace.

"She doesn't need your protection anymore," Brienne finally said.

Sandor grunted. "Oh? What do you call Littlefinger? He had her cornered before I showed up."

Brienne looked to him and, after a moment's pause, chuckled. "She was just fine," she assured with a wave of her hand. "That man couldn't defend himself against a flea, let alone an armed woman with a grudge."

Sandor raised a brow at her, but did not immediately respond.

Finally he said, "You said she didn't need my protection _anymore_ … _?_ "

"That's right, she has me now."

"But before you… who was there?"

They locked eyes, and Brienne hesitated before answering, "No one."

Sandor grimaced. "What happened to her," he asked, eyes straying to the girl in the yard, who used her sleeve to wipe sweat from her brow, her wildling companion brushing snow from his hair and onto her own with a laugh.

"She'll tell you," Brienne said softly, eyes suddenly sad.

Sandor faltered, then asked quietly, "Is it terrible?"

She looked to him and nodded.

"Oh yes. It is terrible."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind comments! Please leave one now and tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She squeezed his hand. "I have missed my hound."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Tormund is supposed to have 4 sons and 1 daughter, however- we're following show Tormund and sticking with 2 daughters, and since no sons are mentioned I'm not going to make him have any. So daughters; Munda and Torwynn (instead of Torwynd- a son from the books).

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

" _What matters most is how well you walk through fire." -Charles Bukowski_

* * *

Sansa had been drunk when she'd told Brienne all that Ramsay had done. The wine had been an easy way for her to open up to the behemoth woman, and she'd spent her first night back in Winterfell deep into her cups, swaying and trying her best to sound nonchalant in her descriptions.

Brienne had cried.

Sansa could feel Sandor's eyes on her, could see the questions running rampant through his mind, and knew there was not enough wine in Winterfell to give her the courage to reveal all to Sandor Clegane.

There might not be enough wine in all of Westeros for that.

"You like him, lady wolf?"

Sansa looked up at Tormund, who was red cheeked from both the vigorous training they had just finished and the biting cold that had settled around them. They still stood in the middle of the training area, snow falling thick around them and their breathing fogging the air, wooden swords held loosely at their sides.

"I do," Sansa responded with a nod, breathing still labored as she strived to catch her breath. "He's a bit… _moody_. But he's a good man."

Tormund walked with her to the small armory shed, placing the wooden sword's they'd used in it. "Will you take him as a lover?"

Her asked it so casually that Sansa jerked in surprise once his words sank in. She felt her cheeks redden, burning in the chilled air. "No!" She responded, voice shrill and high. "No, that's not what I meant!"

Seeming not to notice her discomfort, Tormund persisted. "Because he is old?" He asked.

Hand clutched to her chest, Sansa shook her head and said, "He's not so very old."

Tormund slid the lock into place on the shed and turned to her. "Because he is scarred?"

Sansa took a calming breath and shook her head once more. "I am scarred…" she faltered, finding herself unable to talk of the marks that had been left on her body by Ramsay's blades. Tormund eyed her with a look she had come to know very well, the look of unmasked pity, and Sansa tried not to resent it.

"Is it because you are afraid of him?" He continued, walking back to the middle of the training area, facing her with a wide stance.

Sansa's brows knit as she looked up at him. "He would never hurt me. … Tormund, why do you care?"

"Just making conversation," he said with a shrug, but when Sansa looked dubious he added, "All I've ever heard of this man is that he is a killer, Sansa. Your lady Brienne has talked of her battle with the man to Jon, and they all agreed that he was one of the best fighters here in the south. I don't want you hurt… Jon and My Lady would kill me."

Touched, Sansa smiled up at the wildling. "Don't let Brienne hear you calling her your lady."

Tormund grinned and looked over to where Brienne and Sandor stood speaking quietly, most of their attention held on the two figures in the yard.

"I think I'm wearing her down," he told Sansa. "When we took our meal last night she asked me to pass the venison."

Sansa covered her mouth to hide a small laugh. "Don't tell her I said so," Sansa began, "but I think she likes you. She'd never tell anyone… But she watches you sometimes."

Tormund's eyes danced with happiness. "She likes the girls," he said, and Sansa knew he spoke of his two young daughters, Munda and Torwynn, who had arrived at Winterfell just two days after the Battle against the Bolton's.

"They are good girls, it would be hard not to like them," said Sansa.

Tormund looked pleased at her words and reached out to grip her shoulder. "Ah girl, that they are."

He looked past her, and suddenly his expression was filled with mischief. "Ah, your Hound does not like me touching you," he said, removing his hand from her shoulders with a roguish grin.

Sansa looked over her shoulder in time to see Sandor's annoyed expression, his eyes narrowed and glaring at the Wildling that stood before her. He turned to look at Brienne then, leaning in to hear whatever it was she was telling him, and Sansa sighed and looked back to Tormund.

"He was always… protective," she told the man, and Tormund chuckled and shook his head.

"Oh aye, and so am I of the things I love."

Sansa flushed. "I don't think that's-"

" _Sansa is ready for your training, my fierce warrior lady_!" Called Tormund loudly to Brienne, effectively cutting off Sansa's protests. From where she stood Brienne started and glared before jumping the low fence and walking to Sansa and the wildling.

"Do not call me your lady," Brienne stated with a frown.

Tormund only grinned widely to the woman before departing across the yard and headed towards the main keep, chuckling when Sansa said under her breath, " _Told you so_."

Sansa looked to where Sandor stood watching her with curious eyes, leaning heavily on the wood post- as though he could no longer hold all of his weight on his own.

"Are you sure you'd not like to rest?" she called to him, feeling uncomfortable now that his eyes were only on her, without Brienne to distract him.

She thought she may have seen hesitation in his eyes, but he shook his head and growled that he was fine. Sansa wished she'd have thought to find him a cloak, knowing he must be nearly freezing in his thin tunic.

"Just a quick go, please Brienne. I'd like to get near a fire soon."

The woman nodded, and they began.

* * *

 

Sandor had almost said the he _did_ wish to head into the warmth of the main keep, the cold had seemed to work its way into his bones, and his bad knee throbbed not only from the strain he'd been putting on it, but from the biting chill that surrounded him. He felt involuntary shivers race up his arms and down his spine, and his face felt numb under his thick beard. But he could not walk away, he could not rest, not yet. Not when it had been so long, and she was finally here in front of him, and he could look on her in reality and not a memory.

He was glad he'd stayed though, after he watched Brienne of Tarth take a sudden and swift swing at Sansa, nearly striking her skull. It took a moment to register what was happening, and he had started to move towards the two women, intent on ripping the damn giantess' head off with his bare hands.

_It isn't a real fight._

He realized it two steps into his pursuit, stopping in his tracks. Sansa had ducked just in time to avoid Brienne's swing, and was now dashing away from the large woman's long arms, weaving this way and that to avoid a hit to her body. Red hair danced loose behind her, bright and noticeable in contrast to the severe landscape.

It all hit him then. Sansa was learning how to avoid an attack. She was learning how to be quicker than a larger, stronger opponent.

The implications of this seemed to make his chest ache.

Brienne moved more slowly than she might in a real fight, he knew this from experience. The woman almost seemed to lumber, when Sandor knew she could be quite spry. She let Sansa see what she was doing, a glimpse of each move before it was executed, giving the girl time to decide how to react- which way to move. They would stop every few moments and Brienne would give her instruction, or show Sansa how to correct her movements, and then begin again.

An old familiar anger seemed to build in Sandor then. One that demanded blood and vengeance. As a soldier passed him, intent on his path to a distant barrack, Sandor reached out and grabbed the man by his shoulder.

"What happened here?" Sandor rumbled, other hand splaying to indicate the landscape that surrounded him.

The man, who had a direwolf stitched into his leather armor, sputtered for a moment before eventually telling Sandor of the battle to reclaim Winterfell.

"From _who_?"

"Ramsay Bolton, the lady Sansa's husband."

 _Bolton._ Sandor heard the words and felt himself drowning in the feeling of approaching despair. He knew the name, knew that it was Roose Bolton who had betrayed Robb Stark and had played a part in the events of the Red Wedding. How, _how,_ had Sansa ended up married to a _fucking Bolton_.

Suddenly, all that Sandor had imagined had happened to Sansa became so much worse.

"What became of Ramsay Bolton?" He rumbled, but even to his own ears his voice sounded desperate- bordering on frightened.

"He is dead, ser."

Sandor did not correct the knight, who was looking at him as though he were unsure how to proceed. This was surely information that was common place here in Winterfell. He wanted to ask, to demand answers from the apprehensive knight, but Sandor was afraid to hear the truth, afraid to hear all that had happened to the girl he'd abandoned at the Red Keep, the girl he'd left to whatever fate had in store for her.

_I should have made her come with me._

A pained expression crossed his face then, and he released the knight with a jerk, working his jaw and trying to decide just how angry he was as he watched the man hastily stride away. He turned and redirected his attention to Sansa, who was focused and confident in her movements, hands lifting to block softened blows, head ducking to avoid them.

The training in combat, the commanding voice she'd gained, the straight backed way she carried herself… Sandor knew it all stemmed from whatever her deceased husband had done to her. He had left her in one hell, only to be thrown into another. And he was sure it had been a hell that was just as bad, if not worse, than her forced stay at the King's Landing. He was lost in thought for a while after that, his eyes unfocused as they instinctively tracked her movements across the paddock. And then, as she twisted and seemingly danced out of the way of a low kick aimed by Brienne, she hissed with pain and clutched her abdomen, stumbling and nearly falling to her knees.

Jolted from his thoughts, Sandor was confused, for he'd not seen Brienne make contact with the girl. Without thought he entered the enclosure, unable to climb over the fence as Brienne had, and approached as quickly as his stiff leg would allow him.

Sansa was wincing and straightening herself slowly when he reached them.

"You bloody hit her!" he growled at Brienne, teeth bared at the woman .

Brienne was instantly furious. "I did no such thing!"

"What's this then?" he snapped, pointing to Sansa, who was still clutching her side.

"Sandor, she didn't hit me," Sansa said, and he was surprised to hear a waspish bite to her tone.

He raised his brow, his look clearly demanding an explanation, but Sansa only shook her head. "Old injury," she muttered through clenched teeth.

They stood there, looking awkwardly at each other, before Sandor could no longer help himself.

"Did your husband do this to you, Little Bird?" He'd tried for gentle, but he knew he sounded just as furious as he felt.

Sansa grimaced, ire filling her eyes in an instant. "I have no husband," she hissed.

Sandor balled his fists, knowing he was becoming more and more angry by the second- his emotions spiraling out of control, knowing it was not her fault, but snapping anyway, "Your _previous_ husband, then. Did he do this, Sansa?"

" _Of course he did_ ," She bit out, just as quickly enraged as he had become, her eyes flashing and showing more than a little humiliation. She looked for a moment as though she might rage at him, as though she might reach up and hit him. But then she was gone, stalking past him with a huff and heading to the castle, hand still to her side - as though the pain still lingered.

"Very nice, that was," Brienne intoned from beside him.

" _Dammit_ ," he fumed, his expletive echoing across the snow filled yard. "What was I supposed to say?!"

Brienne sighed and began to follow her lady. "I don't know," she said. "But not that."

* * *

She didn't see him for the rest of the afternoon, and Brienne had told her he'd gone to his chambers. Sansa hoped he was sleeping, hoped that he had retired for the night, and in the morning they could pretend this all had never happened.

She was not so lucky.

He made his appearance when the dining hall had already mostly filled for the evening meal. Sansa felt her breath catch when she saw him, for he'd not only cleaned himself thoroughly, but had taken a razor to his face. Gone was the beard, and here the face of the man she'd known in King's Landing. Someone had found him suitable clothing for the north, and he wore a thick woolen tunic and doe skin breeches. As irritated as she still might be with him, his look did something to her that made her flush with color, her toes and fingers curling into themselves on their own volition.

Sansa though he looked incomplete though, without his dark armor or his long sword, and wondered if she could find him at least a suitable weapon. Breaking from her thoughts, she felt dread fill her insides as he took a place at the head table, between Podrick and Tormund, and she decided quickly that she'd not had nearly enough wine. As she poured herself a large glass Brienne raised her brows, but said nothing.

"How was training?" Jon asked with a sideways glance, and Sansa tried to push down the memory of Sandor demanding to know what Ramsay had done to her.

"Fine," she said, and her voice was clipped.

Jon looked uneasy then, but said kindly, "I could start giving you some lessons with that dagger. Or, I've been told that one of the Mormont men is an excellent archer, if you'd rather that."

Sansa nodded distractedly and took several large gulps of the dark red wine. "The dagger next," was all she said.

It was obvious the entire table was listening, for no one spoke in the long pause that followed, the only sound the scraping of dishes and the chewing of food. Beyond them, in the lower tables, there was raucous laughter and even some half-hearted singing, but the head table was quiet. Sansa chanced a glance at Sandor and saw he had filled his plate with bread and pork, and was chewing slowly, head down, frown set deep into his features.

To Jon's left Davos spoke. "I see no sign of Eyrie soldiers," he said, and it was obvious he was trying to lift Sansa's mood. Jon nodded and told the man that Littlefinger had left without qualm once he'd assured the man he would think over his proposition concerning Robin Arryn and Sansa.

Sansa rolled her eyes and drank more wine. "I hope he breaks his legs on the journey back," she muttered into her cup, and from his seat Sandor snorted.

Jon leaned forward to look at the man. "He had quite a lot to say about you, Clegane."

Sansa saw him grimace at his plate, obviously not wanting to have drawn attention to himself.

"I don't know why," he rumbled. "It's not as though we had much conversation in King's Landing."

Jon shrugged. "He thought I should send a crow to the queen and offer you for the ransom. Thought it would be the right step towards peace between the kingdoms."

Sandor chuckled humorlessly. "He's a fool, playing a fools game."

"Aye," Jon replied. "I told him if he'd like to leave with his head he'd not speak another word of counsel to me."

Sandor seemed surprised by this statement. "Strong words said to a man who controls a large army," he commented, his tone laced with enough scorn that it was obvious he believed Jon to be unwise.

"Not really," Jon said. "Baelish is lucky to be alive after all he's done."

Sandor looked as though he might question this statement, but Sansa slammed down her cup at Jon's comment.

" _Stop_ ," she demanded, angry eyes shooting a warning to Jon.

It was too much, too much talk of man who was irreversibly connected to her nightmarish past. Too much talk of a man who was not yet far enough away.

_If Sandor hears of what he's done, he will ride out tonight and kill Baelish._

She had only just gotten the Hound back, she'd not chance losing him once more because her brother could not hold his damn tongue.

There was quiet again, and Sansa refilled her cup. From the corner of her eye she saw Jon nod to her glass, and Brienne shake her head in caution.

"I can drink as I like, _my king_ ," Sansa snipped, and made a point of looking challengingly to her brother as she sipped her wine.

It was clear that her tone had rankled him, for Jon asked, "Have you made a decision on the dogs, sister?"

Regret at the question immediately flooded his features, but it was too late, and Sansa felt a tremor of unchecked fury race through her veins.

"Why is this my decision?" she snapped, pushing away her meal of pork and steamed onions and pulling her wine closer. From his end of the table, she felt Sandor's eyes on her.

The noise of the hall masked much of their conversation, but the head table heard all, none of them bothering to mask their interest in the events unfolding between Sansa and Jon. Next to her Brienne shifted uncomfortably, and when Sansa glanced up she saw a look of worry pass between Tormund and Jon.

"Sansa," Jon began, but she cut him off quickly by saying, "Have the archers… have them take care of it…"

She had always known this would be her decision, and she had always known that she would feel terrible for it. The hounds that had been left behind after the battle may have killed Ramsay for her, but they had also been trained by the man. They were vicious and unpredictable, and had hunted down and killed countless people- by no fault of their own.

Guilt seemed to rip through her, and she suddenly felt hot tears threatening to spill to her cheeks. Quickly she stood, the chair scraping loudly on the stone floor, and on either side of her Jon and Brienne stood as well.

Sansa frowned and said, "Just, sit down and leave me be. Please."

Jon took her arm and leaned close to her. "Sansa it's alright."

She shook her head, unwilling to cry and so unable to speak. She shrugged off her brothers hand and grabbed her cup, wanting only to escape, to avoid the looks of pity and the gentle words and the kind actions of all who surrounded her.

"Let me be," she managed to choke to the two by her side, and then she was gone, exiting the hall with hurried steps.

She'd planned on going to the kitchens and refilling her glass as often as it took to chase away her sadness, but changed her mind halfway there and headed outside into the cold.

She was within the kennels before she realized what she was doing, and the raucous barking of the dogs seemed to pierce through her skull.

 _Damn_. What was she doing here?

As if in a daze she began moving past each of the kennels, the dogs barking at her as she passed. Sansa only stopped when she reached the pen of the large black hound that had struck the killing blow to her late husband.

"Hello old friend," she whispered to the beast, and the dog quieted and tilted his head to the side.

Sansa sat in front of the bars then, watching as the hound looked curiously at her, pacing back and forth before sitting before her, watching her with intelligent eyes.

She feared him. Part of her wanted to enter the cage, to grab hold of the hounds sleek coat and bury her face into its fur. But another part of her knew that, while well fed and kindly treated, this was an animal that Ramsay himself had trained to kill. Myranda had pointed him out to her once, had told her of the hunt they'd had on the blonde named Tansy and the way the dog had ripped into her flesh.

She seemed to realize then that she had a full glass of wine still clutched in her hands, and Sansa gulped at it. It was how Sandor found her, sitting before the great hounds pen, tears rolling down her cheeks as she emptied her glass.

* * *

"Little Bird?"

Sansa choked out a sob, the now empty goblet slipping from her hands and rolling across the stone slab floor, cushioned by the thick layer of straw that covered it.

It only took a moment's hesitation before he sat next to her there on the ground, an arm hooking around her shoulders and pulling her head to rest on his chest.

"It's alright girl," he soothed, not knowing if it were true but also not sure what else to say.

Tears wet the new tunic he'd been provided, but he cared little, only pulled her closer, held her tighter. Finally Sansa grew quiet in his arms, and he lessened his hold on her to give her the opportunity to pull away from him. She did not, instead curling into him, her face pressed into the warmth of his shirt.

"It's cold here, Sansa."

She shook her head. "I don't want to go back yet," she rasped.

It was quiet then, and Sandor tried his best to just be glad that she was in his arms, to let go of the anger he'd developed over the day.

But he could not, for it still simmered so close to the surface.

"I'd like to have killed your husband," he finally said, and Sansa stiffened in his arms. He wished immediately that he'd not said it, for she pulled away from him and put a hands width of space between them. Sandor lay his hands in his lap and looked to the woman he sat with. She looked pensive, staring at the sleek hound that lay in its straw bed across from them. She'd ordered it and all the rest to be killed, and he wanted desperately to ask her why.

Instead he thought to suggest they return to the warmth of the keep, for it had grown dark and the lit torches had begun to burn low. But Sansa spoke before he'd been able to voice this, saying softly, "He died as he was meant to."

Feeling uncomfortable Sandor asked blandly, "In battle?"

To his very great surprise, Sansa's lips twitched. "Oh no."

He had just a moment to wonder if her kingly brother had beheaded the man before Sansa nodded toward the dog across from them. Sandor looked at it, then to her, and then back to the hound.

"I had my husband tied… right where we sit now," Sansa murmured, and with her legs she shifted the straw that covered the floor, revealing to him the stones beneath.

They were stained red.

"I watched… and he was ripped apart."

Sandor was suddenly chilled, and it had little to do with the cold outside.

Sansa continued, and her voice was quiet and eerie, her eyes unfocused with memory. "I remember his screams… I didn't think he would. I thought he might cry out, or even laugh. But he screamed."

She looked to him then, and it alarmed him to see her smile widely. "He screamed, and I knew he was just a man. He screamed… and it was as you said. It was the sweetest thing."

They shared a long look, and Sandor knew he masked astonishment poorly. His Little Bird, his sweet, sweet Sansa, had killed. It seemed a stranger sat next to him now, an imposter with her red hair and blue eyes, for this could not be his proper lady. He'd known she could be strong… but this? This was different.

This was broken.

Sandor took his hand and rubbed at his forehead, wishing he could grasp just one of the seemingly millions of thoughts running through his head. A part of him wanted to ask again what her husband had done to her, but he suddenly knew that he could not bear to hear it just now.

Instead he told her in a somewhat strangled voice, "Do not have these dogs slaughtered, Sansa."

She scowled at him. "They were trained by him… They _killed_ for him. He hunted… Sandor, he hunted _people_ with these hounds."

He nodded, and clearly now understood her dilemma. They had killed for her, too. They were both foe and ally, friend and enemy. Silently he cursed her fool brother Jon Snow for leaving this decision to her, though he knew the why of it. It felt as though it was her task, as though she were the one who was meant to decide the fate of her dead husband's hounds.

"We can't trust them," she whispered, and seemed so very overwrought by it that he thought she might cry once more.

He sat there, rubbing his head once more and wishing he'd thought to bring along the mug of ale he'd left half finished at the head table. This was all too much. There was so much he'd missed, so much he fet he had failed in concerning his Little Bird. 

"I should have been here."

It was not something he'd meant to say outloud, but the words had escaped of their own volition.

"You didn't know," Sansa muttered, "but… But I wished it too. All the time."

He couldn't help the pained expression that crossed his face at her words, and Sansa quickly amended, "It wasn't your fault!"

"No girl, but I should have taken you with me the night of the Blackwater."

Sansa gave an undignified snort. "I should have gone with you. What's done is done, Sandor."

He felt his lips twitch and suppressed the small smile that threatened to break.

"When did you decide to stop calling me _ser_ , Little Bird?"

"The moment I said my vows to Tyrion Lannister," she responded easily.

Before he could think on what he was about say, he asked with a puzzled voice, "You thought of me on your wedding day?"

He noticed her blush, but she looked him in the eye as she responded, "I thought of you on _both_ of my wedding days, and many days in between."

He was quiet, looking at her and wondering if he should comment on the fact that she was barely into adulthood and had already been married twice.

 _Probably not_.

Instead he only whispered, "I thought of you too, Little Bird."

They sat there in the relative silence, somehow now shoulder to shoulder, though he didn't remember moving closer to her. After a time he repeated, "You can't kill the hounds, Sansa."

He'd been mulling at the solution he'd quickly come to in his head, deciding he rather liked the idea he'd formulated. Before she could argue he asked, "Why do I have three dogs on my sigil, Little Bird?" His voice was more gentle now that he wasn't reeling with shock

She jerked her head to him, understanding immediately. "No… _No_ , they are _dangerous_."

" _ **I**_ am dangerous," he responded testily. "Now… tell me, girl. Why are there three dogs, black as night, on the Clegane banner?"

Sansa worked her jaw. "Kennelmasters," she ground out, and Sandor felt his lips twitch.

"Aye girl, we were Kennelmasters. Let me try and train them, let me judge if they can be trusted. If they cannot, I will let you summon your bloody archers."

She looked at him, clearly at war in her emotions. "I never wanted to kill them," she said, almost defensively, and Sandor nodded.

"I know you didn't, Little Bird."

There was something in that, something in the way he called her _Little Bird_ or _Girl_ , or even by her name, that caused a softness in her eyes, and he knew then that she'd agree. She looked at the dog that lay watching her, its eyes filled with a lazy interest at the pair before him, and knew that she felt she owed the beast.

"Yes," she finally said. "Yes, please work with them. I don't… I don't want to see them killed."

Sandor stood, and when he held out a hand to help her up, she took it. He clasped it longer than he probably should have, saying to her, "Nay girl, I'd not have you killing a hound. Not when he'd kill for you."

Her eyes met his own, bright and the closest he'd seen to happy since he'd first arrived.

 _She acts like I'm the one who makes her happy_ , he realized in confused wonder.

She squeezed his hand. "I have missed my hound."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I LOVE YOU ALL. 
> 
> *Ahem* 
> 
> I love you. That is all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tomorrow I will have a nest," she finally said with finality. "Tomorrow I will burn away ghosts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh... I know it's been forever. Say you still love me.

**CHAPTER FIVE**

_The fire you kindle for your enemy often burns yourself more than them. -Chinese Proverb_

* * *

 

If anything could describe his time in Winterfell thus far, it would be constant surprise. Sandor felt about as steady as a foal, and he was sure it showed. His mind was in chaotic disarray, and he felt so unsure of not only his place here in the North, but of where he stood with Sansa. So little had been explained to him, and yet the disasters that had been implied were considerable. In that first night he had wished to comfort and sooth the sobbing girl, and in as best he could Sandor had tried- had even seemed to make progress. And yet doubt and rejection had plagued the act, for who was he to comfort? Who was he to be enraged on Sansa's behalf, to speak to her with wisdom or truth? He had been absent from her life for so long now, and in the past had been little better than the Knights in King's Landing to the girl. And he knew, when all was said and done, that he'd not changed so much. Perhaps he was calmer. Perhaps he was softer of temper and wiser in age. Perhaps. But in all ways it counted he was still the same man, still the Hound, the craven dog, the pitiless warrior.

Sandor knew this, and it soured his mood.

He looked back on the previous night's events now in quiet contemplation, letting the voices around him dull and muffle as he processed all that had occurred.

When he and Sansa had left the kennels and entered the main hall of Winterfell the night before, the dining hall had been gradually emptying of people, soldiers meandering out into the yard and off to their barracks. He and Sansa had exchanged awkward looks as they stood unspeaking by the great doors, Sandor sure that the girl was contemplating an apology for her outburst in the kennels. But she only turned and left him, biting her lip and saying nothing as they went their separate ways, Sansa headed to the left, and Sandor tightening his jaw and steering himself into the hall to try and catch her brother, ignoring the voice that had pressed him to follow her and tell her there wasn't a bloody thing she needed to be sorry for.

He'd found Jon Snow still at the head table, deep in conversation with the man he now knew as Davos- former right hand of the now rotting Stannis Baratheon- and had informed the northern king of his intention to train the hounds that Ramsay Bolton had corrupted, and of Sansa's consent to it. Jon had looked pensive, but he'd agreed with a sigh, saying, "It's always been Sansa's place to decide what to do with those dogs, but I'm glad she changed her mind."

"Did my lady go to the kitchens?" Brienne had asked him. Sandor had shrugged, and the woman stood and strode out of the hall, hand on the hilt of her sword as if danger could lurk behind any corner.

But really it could, Sandor thought, for Melisandre had said Sansa was in danger- though from what he had yet to see. She seemed surrounded now by friends, the departure of Littlefinger taking with it a danger that seemed to lurk still- but only on the edges of immediacy.

Sandor had not lingered in the hall after that, instead lumbering to the room Sansa had shown him and collapsing on the mattress, having only energy enough to kick off his boots. His mind briefly attempted to hold him to consciousness by reminding him of all he'd learned on his first night in Winterfell, but it was unsuccessful in its attempts, for exhaustion overpowered his thoughts and dragged him into slumber.

But while sleep had taken him, but it had not kept him for long. Sandor remembered waking almost violently hours later, the black of night pressed around him and a chill creeping over his arms. He had been confused for a few moments, unfamiliar with his surrounding- wildly sure he was back in King's Landing, for that was the last time he'd had a proper bed to sleep in. But the day rushed back to him with the force of a hammer, and he'd sat with his head in his hands as the memories assaulted him.

Eventually his head stopped its spinning, and Sandor had been able to push down all he'd learned, all he'd seen and felt, to glance over his surroundings. The only light in the room came from the faint glow of embers in the fireplace, and he had not wished to stoke them. Instead he let his eyes adjust to the low light and study the walls that kept him, warmed with hot spring water and keeping the chill to a minimum. He'd tried then to fall back into the abyss of sleep that had cradled him, but a racing mind prevented it, thoughts swirling with war and winter and auburn hair.

He'd given up eventually, leaving the confines of his room and heading to the kitchens, bare feet slapping against cold stone floors as he wished only for the ale he'd previously forgone- wanting the alcohol to soothe him into slumber. But Brienne of Tarth had barred his way, her sleeping figure leaning against the doors of the kitchen and keeping him from entering.

Sandor had toed her armored leg and snarled obscenities under his breath until she woke with a start.

"A bloody fine place for a sworn shield to guard her lady," he had growled at her. "I didn't take you for the drinking sort, Brienne of Tarth."

The blonde had scowled up at him through bleary eyes, "Off with you, dog," she'd said, but the lack of venom was clear in her voice, and her face held a sleepy confusion in the low torch light.

"I'm here to drink, woman, unless you've taken all the ale for yourself. Move your ass."

Brienne stood slowly, hand going to her sword as if it were almost an afterthought.

"Too late-," she mumbled, but she broke off with a wide yawn. Truly, the warrior woman was not well and sharp upon waking, and Sandor found that she smelled not at all of ale or wine.

"Why are you here," Sandor growled, suddenly cautious, and Brienne shook her head as if to clear it.

"Go back to your chambers," she said then, this time with a bit more forcefulness as she regained her bearings. "It's too late to be into cups."

He had wanted to remove her hulking figure from the door then, to grab her by the shoulders and shove her aside and damn Sansa's request (though it had been an order if he were truthful with himself) of peace between the two of them. But from behind the kitchen doors a voice had called, "Let him in, Brienne. I am still awake."

It had been Sansa, and his brows had raised high in both surprise and query. But Brienne had just sighed in exhausted defeat and let him pass, muttering only, "Perhaps you can be the one to talk some sense into her, gods know how many have tried."

The words had only further confused him, but he had been ushered into the kitchen before he'd had time to question her, the doors swinging shut behind him as he lingering uncertainty at their entrance, taking in the sight before him. She sat alone and with her back to him at a long table that faced a great fireplace, the fire inside it still lit and dancing shadows on the walls. Her fur cloak was laying on the floor before the hearth, and she was left in the breeches and tunic he'd first seen her in- her sleeves rolled to her elbows and long auburn hair tied back with a coarse strap of leather. He walked to her wearily, sitting across from her and noticing that she clutched both a large wooden pitcher in one hand, and a bone mug in the other. She smiled feebly at him, her eyes cutting from the fire up to his set jaw, and he saw her sway as she tilted her head and squinted to better see him.

"Little Bird hasn't flow to her nest?" Sandor had asked quietly, voice rough but not unkind.

Sansa looked at him then, _really_ looked at him, and Sandor was surprised to find that while she was almost certainly drunk, she still had somewhat clear and steady eyes.

"I have no nest," Sansa answered him shortly, then she had looked away from him and finished the contents of her mug with two large, unladylike gulps, and poured more wine from the decanter that she clutched with white knuckles. Sandor had watched with uncertain eyes as she drank deeply, a line of deep red spilling from the corner of her mouth and dripping down her chin. She seemed to radiate anger and bitterness, and somewhere deep under that a grief that nearly overwhelmed him.

After a moment's hesitation Sandor had resolved that he'd come here to drink, and that was what he would do. There were plenty of filled wine pitchers that sat along the wide expanse of the long table, and he took one and drank from it, not bothering with a mug of his own. At his back the fire warmed him from the hearth, filling the room with flickering light. Across from him Sansa was topping off her cup so that it was filled to the brim once more.

Sansa had then eyed him as she sipped her wine. "You seem wary," she'd said, resting her chin in her palm, her eyes seeming to gradually lose the heat of anger that had been behind them.

"...Aye, Little Bird," Sandor said after a moment's pause. "I think you ought to be in bed. …What would your sworn shield say?"

Sansa scoffed and straightened. "Nothing I haven't already heard," she began. "Brienne knows why I'm here, and it has been a long and exhausting day. … And no one _makes_ her sleep outside of the kitchens like a bloody guard dog."

Sandor had chosen to ignore the last comment. "And why are you here, Little Bird?" he'd asked.

She'd studied him for a moment, sent blue eyes sweeping over his face as if she searched for something in his expression, and Sandor tried to keep his face blank.

"Because I have no nest," she finally answered with a shrug.

Sandor's eyes had narrowed as she repeated the earlier response. "This is Winterfell," he had growled. "I'm supposed to believe you've no room?"

Sansa gave a small laugh, and Sandor once again had thought that, while good at hiding it, Sansa was well and surely drunk- more so than he'd previously imagined. He had wondered how long she'd been here brooding into the fire and drinking her wine, and when he remembered that she had headed to the kitchens immediately upon re-entering the castle he had to fight down a wince.

"All rooms are my rooms. Yours, Jon's, Lady Brienne's. ...Even the fucking stable boys rooms are mine."

She'd gained back a little anger with that, and Sandor started in surprise at her language, but said nothing.

"But I have no nest… not until tomorrow, at least."

Part of Sandor wanted to push the meaning from her, to rankle her into further explanation. He hated this, hated the evasiveness- wishing rather that the girl before him would speak outright. But he sensed she'd not tell him, so instead he said, "Where do you sleep, Sansa?"

She was topping off again, and he'd seen her sway once more in her seat, a small smile tugging at her lips (though from his use of her name or the promise of more wine he did not know).

"I sleep here, in the kitchen," she had finally said with a resolved sigh, her chin back to resting in her hands as she looked across the table at him. "I drink, I fall to sleeping at the hearth, and I wake by Brienne, telling me the cooks would like to start meal preparations. I bathe in the bath house, and I dress there too."

Sandor could remember now the feeling of his jaw going slack. She was a lady, and she was bathing in a common space with others. She slept on the floor, more than likely lying upon her thick fur cloak and wrapped in the blanket that he had just then noticed was hung from a hook by the door.

" _Why_?" he'd implored with a rasp, uncomfortable with the way his voice sounded to his own ears- confused and lost, and it made him scowl and clear his throat.

Sansa huffed with un-amused laughter and looked at him, considered him, and Sandor felt her scrutiny acutely. It was as though she were trying to vet his emotions, his intentions, and while he'd not measured what they were himself, he did not wish her to find the truth of anything before he did. He did not know what he was doing here, not past the simple purpose of protecting her, and he knew that his questions, his prodding, was a foreign thing. Her searching eyes had made him clench his teeth, willing his features to stay neutral, wishing his damn ugly face might frighten her once more- might keep her from understanding anything he might think or feel- for he did not want Sansa to see pity or- worse yet- fear.

For he feared what had happened to her, felt the magnitude of it in his bones.

"Tomorrow I will have a nest," she finally said with finality. "Tomorrow I will burn away ghosts."

Before he'd been able to ask her another question (though he had known from her tone that the conversation was over), she had drained her cup and left her seat. Sandor stood and watched her as she retrieved the blanket from the hook and lay in front of the flames, ignoring his massive body as it loomed over her, staring down at her in both confusion and anger.

He had only waited there for a moment, filled with unease as he watched her gaze unseeingly into the flames, before taking his wine and leaving her to sleep on the floor.

_On the fucking floor._

With each step a great and roaring anger had built in his chest. When the doors had been firmly shut behind him, he'd rounded on Brienne, who stood leaning against the wall, clearly waiting for him to emerge.

"You just bloody _let_ her sleep in there?" he had hissed.

The woman had not become angry, as he thought she might, but instead looked as though she might cry.

"I carried her to her room once… When she had fallen to sleeping." Sandor watched as the woman before him tried to gather herself, taking a deep breath through her nostrils as some memory assaulted her.

"I will _never_ do that again," she finally had said, her voice vehement.

Sandor had looked at her, wondering if Sansa had only been angry at being moved, and why, but Brienne clarified for him by saying, "When Jon took Winterfell, he gave her their parents rooms. They were held by Roose Bolton and his wife, and she could not sleep where he had been. … She tried to move to her old room but…" she stumbled then, clearly unsure if she should be telling the man before her this information. "Ramsay," she said then, quickly as though it might pain her just to say it. "She… she shared that room with Ramsay. She'll not enter it. She won't go into any of them."

Sandor stood there, his mind recalling how she'd shown him to his chambers, the place where her brothers used to sleep, and he remembered how she had stood at the door and watched as he entered, not even placing a toe into the room.

A thought had come to him then, that whatever had happened in those rooms was more than a nightmare, more than a haunting memory. Suggestions seemed to assault him, whispers of rape and torture and death. It made the room spin, the shadows of what may have happened seeming to cloud his mind, and Sandor had stumbled away from Brienne with clenched fists and measured breathing, wishing he could bury the anger and pity that assaulted him now, wishing Brother Ray had given him more instruction on ways to drown the fire of hate and rage that claimed him.

He'd been able to sleep a bit more, but just barely, and when he had dressed and joined the host for breaking fast at the main table Sansa was already there, well into her morning meal and dressed in thick wool and dark furs. Her hair was tied into a long braid, the styles of the South lost now that she'd escaped.

Sandor sat there now, throwing cautious looks to the girl who sat three chairs from him, thinking that she looked fresh and clean, and not at all as though she'd slept curled by the hearth like a dog.

His musings were interrupted by Jon and Tormund joining the main table, and Sandor wondered if the northern king knew of his sisters sleeping arrangement. Probably he did, for Sandor was sure that very little of the happenings at Winterfell escaped the man. That thought made him scowl, if only for the mere fact that none had put a stop to the arrangement, that none had been able to talk sense into or properly comfort the girl. The noises of the hall were that of quiet conversation, the chewing of fried pork and hash, and the grunting of stretching soldiers who yawned around their meal. It was peaceful, a lull before an inevitable storm, and it filled Sandor with unease.

His head jerked when he heard Sansa clear her throat and speak.

"Today I would like my room emptied of all furniture," she began, her eyes briefly cutting down the table to look at him, then back to the plate in front of her. "The rugs, the bed, clothes, and curtains- Everything. I'd like them all removed and placed in the yard."

The only person seemingly not surprised by this order was Brienne, who set her jaw and gulped at her root tea. Both her brother Jon, and the Wildling Tormund, stopped eating abruptly to look at Sansa in surprise.

The table had gone quiet, and finally Winterfell's maester, a short and portly man named Goodwin (who Sandor knew only because the man had been the one to find him proper fur lined clothing), asked in a small, hesitant voice, "M-my lady… m-m-may I ask why?"

Sansa gave the maester a smile that did not reach her eyes. "You may always ask."

There was a long silence that followed her statement, and finally the long table seemed to realize that there was no answer forthcoming, for Sansa had begun eating bread and honey with vigor, ignoring the way her brother looked on her with knit brows and a cautious expression.

Sandor waited for what felt like an eternity for someone to question Sansa, but all had held their tongues. Tormund continued eating, his eyes probing Brienne for answers that were not given. Jon Snow touched his sister's hand, a pained look in his eyes when she slid her arm away from him and averted her eyes. When he had opened his mouth to undoubtedly ask _why_ Sansa wanted her childhood room emptied, Brienne had cut him off with a sharp shake of her head.

Resolved, Sandor finished his meal and left with the men that had been delegated to Sansa's task, not asking if he should join- just doing so nonetheless. He helped the men empty the main room, carrying the four poster bed and old oak rocking chair outside to the yard. This was done with care until Sansa seemed to realize the gentleness of the move and barked to them, "I want this done quickly, not carefully! Break things down if you must but get it done by midday!"

Sandor understood then what she wished to do, and began throwing the furniture in a large pile, wood shattering and clothing muddied as he flung item after item onto the pyre. The men around him followed suit, and from where he stood watching Jon Snow seemed to suddenly become aware of what was happening- for a light of realization filled his eyes, and he swore and stalked out of the yard.

As he added it to the pile, Sandor tried to ignore the blood on the mattress.

* * *

They finished at midday, as Sansa had asked, and one of the Mormont men fetched her from the training yard. She came with Brienne, sweaty and dirty from training, sword strapped to her hip and her hair releasing from its braid in wild frays.

She could only make brief eye contact with Sandor Clegane, who watched her with hooded eyes and an unreadable expression. Sansa tried to tamp down the embarrassment she felt from the night previous. She'd cried on him, been drunk in front of him, and had confessed weakness to him.

She felt more than foolish.

But at the sight of all her childhood things piled in the main yard, all other emotions were suppressed as white hot fury replaced them. She approached with purpose, her shoulders taught and her lips curled with a sneer. She grabbed a torch from a bracket as she came, and when she set fire to the pile of furniture, she felt as though she might scream. It seemed as though Ramsay had haunted all of this, these things she'd once called her own. Seeing them burn caused her both immense satisfaction, and what felt like unceasing anger. This was her childhood, her memories that had all turned sour. She shouldn't have to be doing this.

She felt Sandor back away from the flames, but Sansa seemed to want to leap into them, she stood so close. The red inferno grew high and hot before her, and ash fell like rain and coated Sansa's hair and peppered her face. When the bed was only discernible from its charred posts in the flames, tears finally broke her, and her shoulders began shake.

She took a deep breath, ignoring the stinging of smoke as it filled her lungs, and strode away from the fire, leaving a host of silent men behind.

It was only when she reached the far end of the yard and had slipped behind a wood shed that she felt her knees collapse.

Sansa tried to hold her breath to quell her sobs, but they came, breaking past her lips like crashing waves and leaving her gasping. Tears blinded her, and she cradled her head in her hands and tugged at her hair.

How was she supposed to move on? She had thought the fire to be a good idea, that she would feel some sort of closure at burning away the memories of Ramsay.

Instead, she felt as though she might die.

And then she felt arms wrapping around her, felt a hand gently guide her to a broad chest and hold her there. She heard him make soothing humming sounds, felt him lay his cheek on her head.

"What did he do to you, Little Bird?"

Sansa clutched Sandor's shirt and sobbed.

" _Everything_."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's been so long! I... Honestly I hate this chapter. I've worked on it forever, I have changed SO much, and I still feel resentment over it. I'm glad it's done so I can progress with the rest of the story and not worry about this Satan chapter anymore. Also, I got married, so... yeah, that also helped the delay.
> 
> I love you all! Review and get locks of Jon Snow's hair!


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